Don't Think Twice
by Mindy35
Summary: KIBBS. OtherPOV .Kate needs Gibbs' help on a private matter.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Don't Think Twice

Author: Mindyh

Rating: T, adult themes, allusions to sex and violence.

Disclaimer: Characters belong to DPB et al. Lyrics are by Bob Dylan.

Summary: KIBBS. Kate comes to Gibbs for help on a private matter.

-x-

"_It ain't no use in turnin' on your light, babe,_

_That light that I never knowed._

_And it ain't no use in turnin' on your light, babe,_

_I'm on the dark side of the road._

_Still, I wish there was somethin' you would do or say,_

_To try to make me change my mind and stay._

_We never did too much talkin' anyway,_

_So, don't think twice, it's all right._

_It ain't no use in callin' out my name, babe_

_Like you never did before._

_And it ain't no use in callin' out my name, babe,_

_I can't hear you any more….._

_I ain't sayin' you treated me unkind,_

_You coulda done better, but I don't mind,_

_You just kinda wasted my precious time,_

_But don't think twice, it's all right._

-x-

_Part I_

Jethro Gibbs is a mystery to her. He always has been from the moment they met. It's only recently though that that has started to bother her.

She never wanted something serious, but she has started to resent his reserve. She knows what they have is only casual, but she has started to doubt the wisdom of their arrangement.

When they met, the spark between them was instant and strong. He pursued her relentlessly. He was charming, determined and persistent. They both sensed what would happen if and when she acquiesced. And she did, of course, without much real resistance.

She took him to her bed on the first night he took her out. She's often regretted that -- and wondered whether things could've been different if they'd waited, if they'd tried to discover in one another something deeper.

But it's mere speculation. Her connection with Jethro Gibbs was always physical – never spiritual or cerebral. They rarely talked, even while in bed together. They never shouted each other's names in love or awe. They shared only scraps of their individual lives and tacitly avoided all talk of their respective histories and the wounds which had led them to this unorthodox union.

She used to feel safe with that distance. She used to crave the mystery that both of them retained. She was not ready to be known again, loved again. She was not prepared to love another man and loose him – especially a man like Jethro Gibbs.

In some ways, he was very like her late husband and in others, he was Patrick's complete opposite. That made him a safe choice. She was aware of that. She was aware of the underlying psychology behind both of their decisions. She was aware of her choices every step of the way and of what she was letting herself in for the longer she remained in this peculiar, sexual relationship with a man she knows she can never really have.

She has no one to blame but herself – and her continuing and catastrophic grief at having lost the one man who had known and loved her like no other.

A small, desperate part of her had wanted her relationship with Jethro to mean more. It had only been six months since Patrick's death when she met him. Part of her couldn't comprehend how she could be so easily seduced after such a relatively short mourning period.

It had to mean more than just physical release between two lonely strangers. She couldn't stand the thought that she could be so unfaithful to her beloved husband's memory. She couldn't understand herself behaving in a way that he would never have expected of her. It seemed to somehow diminish her love, her loss.

But it was amazing how quickly one's conscience was appeased with impaired rationale and staunch denial and senseless sex. Bit by bit, her grief slipped into the background, her new, disjointed life took over and her relationship with Jethro flourished in impassioned ignorance.

In the beginning, they saw quite a lot of each other. The sex was extraordinary, transporting. She left her body, she left her mind. She left her life and her grief so far behind that sometimes she cried when she returned.

But she kept going back for more -- she clung to this mysterious, tenacious man as her one escape, her carnal liberation.

Once, when she'd cried, he'd held her, all night. She'd woken in his bed, with tears still on her cheeks, a raging hangover and his strong arms enveloping her. Ashamed of her unintentional exposure, she'd slipped out of his arms, out of his bed and out of his house before he had woken, before he could show her any more care, before she could start wanting more from him.

These days, however, it was rare that they slept in the same bed. They both preferred their own beds, their space, their privacy. Jethro seemed to require her services or society less and less. It was not unusual now for him to not call for weeks on end. And when he did, all she did was sit in his basement and watch him build his precious boat. It was the only thing he would talk to her about, in devout and distant tones.

But he didn't seem to want her to touch him anymore. He didn't seem to relish her kiss or pay attention to her clothes and perfume the way he used to. He certainly didn't like her trying to take his clothes off and made no effort to remove hers.

In fact, he seemed entirely indifferent to her presence. As she watched him work on his boat, night after night, she got the distinct impression that it didn't matter whether she was present or not.

It didn't upset her too much. Men went through fazes and Jethro Gibbs was one of the strangest men she'd ever met. Except that the last time they had slept together had been very strained and unsettling.

He'd been so absorbed in his own mind. His actions were mechanical and detached and when he closed his eyes, she could've sworn he was shutting her out. His orgasm was almost violent in its intensity. She'd never seen him loose it so completely.

He moved over her with the force of an enraged animal, with the passion of a tormented man. He seemed utterly possessed for a moment, transported to and suspended in another place -- and while he was there, he had released the name of another woman in a wretched howl.

Afterwards, she didn't reproach him for it, or try to draw him out. As much as she wished to, she remained silent. She lay beside his sweaty, spent body, staring at the ceiling as her heart slowed. And while the question repeated over and over in her brain, she wouldn't let herself ask him who exactly 'Kate' was.

She knew he'd lost a wife. She knew he'd been unhappily married too many times. And her indifferent conclusion was that it was one of these women who possessed his brain while he possessed her body.

And though she recognized the disrespect and the injustice of it, she couldn't really blame him without blaming herself. She couldn't honestly say she hadn't done the same thing herself – imagined Pat's hands where Jethro's were, his mouth covering hers and his body occupying the space beside her in bed.

They were a terrible, reprehensible, damaged, pathetic pair of lovers – so she never said a word.

She pushed the incident from her mind and attempted to dismiss the desperate passion with which he'd called the other woman's name. This 'Kate' could mean anything or nothing to him – and frankly, she wasn't sure she wanted to know the truth.

But a week later, when they were out for a casual meal, Gibbs had gotten a phone call on his cell. It was obviously a work matter so she tuned out the conversation – until she heard that name again.

She looked up from her drink. His tone was different to when they were in bed though. He sounded harassed and irritated as he growled down the phone line at 'Kate'. Two minutes later, he apologized and left, telling her he was needed at work urgently.

She'd been surprised to hear from him a few days later. He phoned late at night to request a lift home from a crime scene, after the completion of a case. She nearly declined, retorting that she was not his constant chauffeur or personal slave. She actually had a life and work of her own to conduct.

But she didn't refuse. She went, hoping to get a glimpse of the agent he'd called 'Kate'. On the way, she'd chided herself for her curiosity, for her jealousy. After all, she was the only woman that Jethro Gibbs had taken to bed in the last three years. She was absolutely certain that he had been faithful to her during that time, despite the casual nature of their entanglement. And many men had fantasies about co-workers – it was completely natural. It didn't have to mean anything more.

But he'd dragged her into the problem by bringing this Kate person into bed with them, the only place where the outside world was not supposed to exist. And she wanted to see for herself the woman that could evoke such intense feeling in Jethro Gibbs – something she hadn't been able to do in three years as his lover.

When she pulled up to the curb, deliberately keeping her distance, she saw the usual huddle of NCIS jackets, standing by a large, white truck. Amongst three taller figures was a young woman. She'd seen her before, but had never paid much attention to her. She was small and slim with a conservative, capable air.

She didn't seem like the sort of woman who could create extraordinary passion in a man, but looks could be deceiving. Neither was she what she would've considered Jethro's type, but she was undoubtedly beautiful. Even from a distance, she could see that beneath the professional garb hid a pretty body, high cheekbones and sparkling eyes.

She watched as one of the men punched the other's arm, grinning widely. As they bickered back and forth, the female agent, standing next to Gibbs, took off her cap, absently letting her hair untwist and tumble about her shoulders. She noticed the way her older boss traced the movement from the corner of his eye, the way he furtively ran his gaze over her dark mane while she wasn't looking.

For a man of small gestures, this one was immense and prominent. If she wasn't sure before, she was now convinced that this was Jethro's Kate and that shouting her name at the height of his pleasure had been more than an irrational mistake or random fantasy.

Quickly, Jethro turned away, giving simultaneous headslaps to the squabbling boys and striding away to have a brief word with an older gentleman. Spotting her car across the road, he sent her a sharp, little nod, then without another word to his team, he headed in her direction.

He gave her the usual dispassionate peck on the cheek as he jumped into the passenger seat. Lately, she mused as she smiled over at him and turned the wheel, she might just as well be his sister.

As they drove down the street, she noticed the young brunette staring after them for a long moment. And, this time, she also noticed that Jethro glanced in the rear view mirror -- no doubt watching her retreating figure as she rounded on the other agents, yelling at them before brushing past and storming away.

She'd wondered whether to broach the subject with him but she couldn't work out how. It's true she's qualified in this area, but she can't help feeling she's just not the right person for him to talk to -- even if he would, which she doubts.

As it turns out, she's not the right person for him, in any respect, and probably never was. She can see that now. She should've known better, a woman of her age and education and experience. She should've thought ahead, past all the meaningless sex, to what she is feeling now. She always suspected he would find someone else, someone who actually needed him, someone who would let him in, someone he could open up to.

Something tells her he has found that someone and he doesn't even know it.

Downing the last of her drink, she resumes her search of his kitchen cabinets, looking for something vaguely edible. Actually, she's not that hungry. She's just avoiding going back to that stifling basement and his perpetual silence.

She slams the cupboard shut and pours herself another drink, just as she hears a tentative knock at the door. She knows that Jethro won't hear it from his favorite hibernation hole so she moves down the corridor and answers the door.

On the doorstep is the woman she has seen on a dozen street corners but never up close. The little brunette stands uncertainly, her arms wrapped around her body and her head lowered as she shifts from foot to foot. She looks surprised as she raises her face, for some reason wearing big, dark glasses, despite the late hour.

"Oh--" she says softly, her mouth working speechlessly, her chin quivering.

The redhead pauses, looking her over: "Are you looking for Jethro?"

She notices a fresh graze on the younger woman's cheek and caked blood on her knuckles as she crosses her arms over her chest. Her hair is a mess, her clothes ripped in places and her lip is split in one corner.

"Yes," she answers shakily: "I'm sorry, I…"

"You're hurt," she sighs softly, trying not to stare at the blood: "Please come in."

The brunette hesitates, glancing back towards her erratically parked car: "I--"

"Please--" she insists, putting a hand on her elbow and drawing her inside.

Kate steps in slowly, her head bowed, her body huddled. She glances around the vestibule for any sign of her boss. His house is obviously foreign to her by the awkward way she hovers near the door.

"You're Kate, aren't you?" the redhead asks carefully, closing the door behind her.

She nods and a few tears slip out from under the big sunglasses to trickle down her cheeks. She sniffs and raises her head, facing the other woman and meeting her gentle gaze.

"I'm Gillian."

_TBC…_


	2. Chapter 2

_Part II_

"Jethro!" Gillian calls down the stairs to the basement.

"What?!" comes the irritable reply.

"Someone to see you," she replies gravely, glancing at the female agent sitting, silent and subdued, at the breakfast bar.

"Who?" he demands scratchily.

Gillian takes a breath. "It's Kate," she tells him, loud and clear.

Almost immediately, the wood staircase begins to creak under his weight as he bounds up the steps, two at a time. Gillian wanders away from the threshold and over to the other side of the kitchen, picking up her drink.

"Can I get you--?" she offers, lifting her glass at the other woman.

"No, thank you," Kate whispers, shaking her head: "I'm fine."

Jethro enters hastily, pulling his undershirt out from where it was hanging, tucked into the back of his pants. He glances back and forth between the two women as he slips the shirt over his head and tugs it down over his body.

"Hey," he murmurs, tightly, not quite looking at their visitor as he reaches for the bottle of scotch: "What's going on?"

"Hey," Kate returns, her voice a mere whisper.

Her head is lowered, her hair falling over her bloody face as she breathes deep and heavy. Shakily, she lifts her fists onto the benchtop, her fingers clasped together tightly. Jethro's face changes instantly and he stops in his tracks as he notices the cuts and grazes on her skin.

Kate licks her lips and raises her head slightly, but not fully. He lurches towards her, sudden but careful, his eyes narrowed and his head ducking to examine her face. She draws in a breath as she feels him move closer. Then she sniffs bravely and meets his eyes from behind her dark glasses.

Slowly, Jethro reaches out, his eyes fixed on her face as he lifts the glasses off her eyes, sliding them back over her hair. Her eyes are bloodshot with tears, but she refuses to let them fall in front of him.

Her boss' eyes run over her face, carefully, furiously taking in her injuries. The graze on her cheek is large and swollen and there is a nasty, weeping gash above her left eye that looks quite deep. She drops her gaze, biting her lip and wincing at the cut in the corner. His eyes travel down over her figure, noticing her ripped shirt, spotted with blood, and the bruise already forming on her exposed breastbone.

"_Who?_" he finally demands hoarsely.

Kate gulps, the tears rising in her throat again: "He…."

"_Who, Kate?_" he demands again, his tone gentle but resolute: "Give me his name."

"His name's--" she raises her head, looking him in the eye and letting out her breath: "Brian Willis."

Gibbs pulls back, standing upright and staring at her hurt face with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Gillian can see him mentally adding the man's name to his personal most wanted listing.

"He's still in my apartment," Kate continues, making an effort at appearing capable and composed for her boss. She shrugs slightly, dropping her eyes from his incensed, intense expression, and adds: "Possibly unconscious."

Gibbs pulls his cell from his pocket and begins stalking back and forth on the tile: "I'm calling Tony. We--"

"No," Kate speaks up desperately, sitting up in her chair and shaking her head vehemently.

Gibbs stops immediately, cell phone in hand, and turns to meet her pleading eyes. His expression softens discernibly as he watches a few tears topple from her eyelashes to her cheeks.

"I…" she falters, her eyes wet and teary: "I don't want anyone else to know."

"Kate--" Gibbs starts with a heavy sigh.

She interrupts him, putting her hands up in a defensive gesture. "I don't want to press charges," she mutters, her voice more steady: "I just…. I want him out of my place."

Gibbs puts away his cell phone and moves towards her again. He plants his hands on the wooden bench, leaning in and peering closely at her, his face mere inches from hers.

"I can't do that, Kate," he tells her firmly.

"Yes, you can, Gibbs," she murmurs softly, holding his fierce gaze: "I know you can." She searches his eyes for a moment: "Please," she pleads earnestly: "Please, just -- do this for me."

Gibbs heaves unhappily, wagging his head. "At least let Ducky take a look at you," he mumbles quietly, his eyes skating over her rumpled appearance once more.

"I'm fine," she assures him, leaning a little closer. She smiles through her tears at his unconvinced expression. "I promise," she whispers with a little nod.

"I could take a look at her," Gillian offers, from her corner of the kitchen.

Both of them turn towards her with surprise, apparently having forgotten her presence. Two sets of dubious eyes assess her as Kate and Gibbs pull back from one another's personal space. She glances from Kate to her boss then back to Kate again.

"I'm a doctor," she tells her calmly: "But we can keep it unofficial."

Gibbs turns back to Kate, brows lifted, a question in his eyes. Kate wavers -- her dark eyes drop briefly before climbing up to meet his intent gaze. Then she nods cautiously, in answer to his query, as Gillian watches their silent communication from afar.

He straightens again, striding to the basement door and grabbing his jacket from the staircase banister. "Gimme your keys," he mumbles to Kate as he punches his hands into the sleeves and slips it over his shoulders.

Kate reaches out, her hand resting over his for a brief moment as she places her apartment keys in his palm. He stuffs them in his pocket, his eyes never leaving her face.

"I won't be long," he promises, adjusting his collar. He glances over at Gillian: "Take care of her."

"I will," she replies, giving him a dim little smile.

He takes one last look at his young colleague before he heads out of the kitchen, marching down the corridor and slamming the door behind him.

_TBC…_


	3. Chapter 3

_Part III_

"So, you're a doctor?" Kate asks anxiously, from where she sits on the blue bedspread of Gibbs' neatly made bed.

"A psychologist now," Gillian answers from the adjoining bathroom where she is rummaging through the medicine cabinet. She can feel the other woman's shy but inquisitive gaze studying her behind her back; taking a thorough record of her hair and clothes and figure and words.

"I work as a grief counselor," she continues, glancing over her shoulder at the younger woman.

Picking up a bottle, she squints at the label and turns, stepping back into the bedroom, cotton wool in her other hand. Kate's eyes retreat from her curious inspection.

Gillian approaches carefully, giving her a kind smile: "But before that, I worked in Emergency for many years."

"Oh," nods Kate, watching her uncap the bottle and wet the cotton swab with antiseptic ointment.

"Saw lots of cuts and bruises," she assures her lightly. Setting the bottle on the bedside table, she puts one hand under Kate's chin and gently tilts her face up.

Kate holds still as she dabs at the graze on her cheek. "You're a psychologist," she murmurs dubiously, after a short pause: "and you date Gibbs?"

Gillian smiles softly: "Yeah. It's a conundrum."

"I'll say," Kate replies, a little touch of humor in her voice. She winces slightly as the antiseptic penetrates her wound.

"Well…" sighs Gillian, leaning away to retrieve the bottle on the bedside table. "We don't talk about our work, anyway," she admits quietly, smearing more ointment on a fresh piece of cotton wool.

"Funny," Kate replies, her voice tentative and light: "…I wasn't aware that Gibbs talks about anything else."

Gillian quirks an eyebrow faintly, her head bowed. "He doesn't," she answers shortly.

"Oh," Kate mumbles, her eyes dropping to the floorboards once more.

Gillian steps closer, putting a hand beneath her chin and lifting her face again. Furtively, she studies the pretty features of the other woman as she swipes at her split lip with the salve. She notes the astute arch of her brows, the youthful roundness of her cheeks and the sweet slope of her nose.

"Well, he doesn't talk about the cases," she continues in a casual tone: "…but sometimes he'll tell me a little about his team." Carefully, she places the cotton wool over the cut above Kate's eye and holds it there for a moment, meeting the brunette's circumspect gaze. She hesitates before adding mildly: "He mentioned your name a while back."

A tiny spark goes off in Kate's eyes before she lowers her dark lashes to disguise it. "What did he say?" she couldn't help but ask, her tone shy and unsettled.

"Not much…." she shrugs in reply, dropping her hand away from Kate's brow. She stares at her for an instant, then turns and heads back into the bathroom. "But I could tell he likes you," she remarks, over her shoulder. She pulls a wash cloth out of the drawer and soaks it with warm water, glancing at the face of her patient in the mirror.

"Well," Kate mumbles uncertainly: "He's a great boss. He's… taught me a lot."

Gillian says nothing more as she moves back to the bed and sits next to her. She lifts one of Kate's cut-up hands from her lap and starts running the wash cloth over her skin, carefully washing off the blood.

"So, this Brian person…" she begins tentatively, glancing at Kate's face: "is he… boyfriend? Husband?"

"Oh, God. Neither," she huffs: "Barely even a friend." She takes a deep breath, shaking her head and confessing: "We went out in college a couple of times. But we were never…." Her voice trails off and she bites her lip, staring at her hands: "Tonight was just supposed to be dinner, you know? To reminisce over old times…. I don't know why he thought--"

"Doesn't matter what he thought," Gillian mutters evenly, bathing the other hand with care: "Doesn't excuse doing this to you."

"I know…" Kate nods, her voice heavy and pensive.

"Did he…?" Gillian starts, closely watching her wounded face and stooped posture from the corner of her eye: "Kate, did he force himself on you…?"

Kate looks up suddenly, a little disconcerted. "No," she responds, shaking herself: "No. He didn't—he didn't rape me. He…didn't get that far…."

Gillian nods slowly, turning to grab the bottle of antiseptic again and beginning to smooth it over the scratches on her small, red hands. Kate takes another deep, calming breath and they sit in silence for another long moment.

"Do you ever--" Kate pauses briefly then turns to look the redhead in the eye: "Do you ever get the feeling," she asks, bluntly: "that you are utterly pathetic at reading men?"

Gillian smiles and lifts her eyebrows. "All the time," she nods ruefully.

"So, it's not just me then…" she sighs under her breath.

"No," she answers musingly: "it's not just you." Peering at the back of her shirt, Gillian notices a gash in the material and says hesitantly: "Ah….do you know your shirt is ripped back here?"

"Oh," she hums, twisting and trying to get a look at her back: "He…I was… pushed against the bureau when we--"

"You better take it off," she urges gently: "let me have a look."

Kate purses her lips then gets to her feet, slowly unbuttoning the shirt and slipping it off her shoulders. She drops it on the bed as Gillian steps behind her, running her eyes over her back.

There is a thin scrape crossing diagonally over her spine. It's not too deep, just long – what is more worrying is the bruise below it, right over her kidneys. It is already purple and blue and slightly swollen. It looks more like a fist than a bureau but she doesn't say so. She hears Kate wince as she probes the area a little, checking for any serious damage.

"Your ribs feel okay?" she inquires quietly, moving her cool hands up her back.

"Yeah," Kate nods, holding still as she proceeds to trace the outline of her ribcage with her fingers.

"Good, that's good…" she muses with a creased brow.

As she meticulously inspects the condition of the body in front of her, in exactly the same way she has with hundreds of others before, Gillian can't seem to locate her usual detachment. She can't help but notice the young skin and delicate curves, the gentle shape and toned muscle of her lovers' subordinate.

She remembers having a body like this. She's taller; but her figure has always been slim and sleek – like Kate's. Not that she has anything to feel ashamed of or disappointed by now. She still has a form that can attract glances of admiration and desire; she still has a body that receives and appreciates physical intimacy.

Yet, unbidden to her mind comes a startling vision of the brown hands and blue eyes she knows so well caressing this body instead, this younger specimen, this other woman. She shakes the notion from her brain, attempting to dismiss it as an unfounded and unlikely intuition.

There is something strangely iniquitous about the thought of this young girl and that old man together. And yet, she has to admit, there's something vaguely touching and assuring about it-- something obvious and perfect.

If this night has proven anything, it has shown her that this woman who she's only just met – however young or inexperienced or conservative or unlikely is certainly a match for Jethro Gibbs in terms of strength and will, tenacity and courage. Kate is the sort of woman he needs. Kate is the sort of woman who needs a man like him, suits a man like him.

"This hurt at all?" she asks distantly, slipping her hands underneath Kate's arms and carefully checking the front of her ribcage for an sign of injury or discomfort.

"I think I'm fine," Kate murmurs, shifting a little on her feet.

"Okay," she nods quietly.

Gillian takes a breath as she withdraws her hands, content to accept Kate's personal diagnosis. Slowly, she heads over to the closet and opens the doors.

Inside, Gibbs' clothes are hung in neat sections, his shirts lined up like soldiers, ironed and starched and ready for duty. She slips a white one off the hanger and walks back to Kate who has her arms folded over her plain coffee colored bra as her eyes drift curiously about the bedroom of her boss.

"Here," she says, holding out the shirt with one finger hooked in the collar. "You can sleep in this."

"Thanks," she mutters, taking the shirt and looking uncertain for a moment. "Here?" she asks incredulously, pointing to Gibbs' bed with one finger.

"Someone should," Gillian shrugs then turns slowly and heads for the door. "I'll let you get some rest," she says, staring at her thoughtfully from the threshold: "Call me if you need anything."

"Thanks," Kate smiles weakly, clutching the shirt to her chest. She gingerly takes a seat on the big bed as the redhead closes the door behind her with a quiet thud.

_TBC..._

_A/N: Thank you to everyone reading and reviewing. I'm pleased your enjoying this story. KBBS forver._


	4. Chapter 4

_Part IV_

Gillian is sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, nursing her fourth scotch, when she hears Gibbs come through the front door, closing it quietly behind him. He heads down the corridor towards the light in the kitchen, his footsteps heavy and unhurried. He barely looks at her as he grabs a mug and pours himself a serve of the smooth liquor.

"Did you get him?" she asks gently, after a long silence.

"Yep," he nods, taking a long sip: "Not before he destroyed half her apartment though."

Gillian sighs: "Well, the main thing is that she's okay," she states smoothly.

Jethro looks at her, his brow crumpled: "You checked her out?"

"Yeah," she answers, tipping her head to one side as her eyes scan his face: "He didn't go easy on her. She's got a few nasty lacerations and she'll be a bit sensitive for a while. But, I'd say," she sighs faintly, lifting her drink: "the wounds are mostly internal."

"Where is she?" he asks, leaning back on the kitchen counter and scrubbing a hand through his silver hair.

"She's lying down," she says in a hushed voice.

Gibbs looks up at her from under his bushy brows. He falters before frowning: "In my bed?"

"Yes," she replies sharply: "She needed rest. And peace."

He nods reluctantly in agreement, but is obviously uncomfortable with the idea. He moves forward, shoving himself off the counter. But before he can reach for it, she grabs the bottle of scotch and pours him another drink. He nods his thanks, unsurprised by her pre-empting his craving. He lets out a troubled breath as he withdraws again, settling back against the kitchen counter.

"I don't know why she didn't come to me," he mutters darkly, staring at the floor.

Gillian gazes into her scotch. "From what she told me," she says carefully: "this was a one time occurrence. She doesn't seem like the type to put up with long term abuse."

He glances at her once more from beneath his brows, his expression skeptical. She can see that he's not entirely convinced of her professional opinion concerning a woman who he has known for years but she has only just met. He's seen more than his share of scumbags in his work -- but she's seen more of their handiwork and aftereffects. And she's fairly sure of her impression of his young colleague.

"And anyway," she adds, more insistently: "She _did_ come to you, Jethro. As soon as she got out of there, she headed straight for your door."

He raises his head, pinning her with narrowed, indignant eyes: "You make it sound like there's something wrong with that."

"No," she responds swiftly, shaking her head at him: "there's nothing '_wrong_' with it." She shrugs, continuing in a tentative tone: "I mean…I find it a little strange that she didn't go to a friend or boyfriend, even an ex." She gestures at him with one hand, her voice remaining impartial: "She went to her boss…" she pauses, meeting his suspicious gaze with an open countenance: "but there's nothing wrong about that."

"Then, why do I feel like I'm being accused of something?" he demands brusquely, his eyes spitting icy daggers at her across the kitchen.

She sighs in frustration. "You're not being accused of anything," she assures him evenly, leaning across the countertop and trying to lessen the distance between them. They rarely talk this way with each other, and now she knows why. They really aren't very good at it.

"She _trusts_ you," she tells him gently, her eyes holding his: "That's a _good _thing."

Jethro grimaces uncomfortably, averting his eyes from her perception and her understanding. He sets his scotch aside and runs a hand over his face, huffing tiredly. She watches his movements closely, studying every facet of how he looks and moves and sounds, both impartial and tender in her regard. Then, she pushes her unfinished drink away from her and slips off the high stool.

"I'm going to get moving," she murmurs quietly, straightening her skirt.

Jethro peers at her, his hand resting over his mouth: "You're not going to stay?" he mumbles, surprised.

Her mouth turns up in one corner: "Where do you suggest I sleep?" she asks lightly: "The couch? It's too late for dinner and I don't intend to watch you build your boat all night."

He stands up straight, shuffling on his feet: "But… what if she wakes up?"

"Well, you could try talking to her," she suggests over her shoulder as she turns and heads for the door.

He frowns as he follows her down the corridor, watching from a distance as she retrieves her bag and her coat from the stand by the door. She flicks her red curls out from the collar of her dark coat and turns towards him.

"But whatever you do, Jethro," she continues in a quiet voice: "be gentle."

He holds his hands out at his sides and demands exasperatedly: "What exactly do you think I'm gonna do to her?"

She steps forward, leveling him with a flinty stare: "None of this is her fault."

"I know that," he retorts indignantly.

"So tell _her _that," she urges, raising her eyebrows at his irritated expression: "She needs to hear it from someone she trusts. Maybe--" she stalls, turning towards the door before murmuring softly: "…maybe that's why she's here."

Gibbs strides forward, opening the door for her to exit and muttering mechanically: "I'll call you tomorrow."

"No," she replies briskly, turning to him on the threshold: "You won't."

He glares at her incredulously. "I _won't_?" he questions pointedly.

"No," she repeats, adamantly: "And I don't want you to."

"Why?" he asks, his face creased with confusion.

It takes her over a minute to answer him. She slips on her gloves, staring at her hands as she tries to put words to what she feels in her gut, as she strives to fashion some sentence he will actually buy. The reasons have always been there, against them. They've both known it. They've both ignored it.

But that's not what he's asking for. What she needs now is an explanation for what has changed all of a sudden, why all those reasons matter now when they never did before. She looks back at his face, as her mind lights on the simplest summation she can create.

"Because," she muses, hesitantly: "Because… we're not good for each other, Jethro." She sighs and shakes her head: "I'm not sure that we ever were."

"Don't you think _I_ should decide what's good for me?" he retorts testily, his eyes piercing her with their resentment.

"Yes," she replies mildly: "You should. You really should. And," she moves a little closer to him, ignoring his hostility and laying a calm hand on his jacket: "if you would like my professional opinion on the matter, I would say-- go upstairs -- and _talk to Kate_."

"Kate?" he stutters, dazed and lost: "What's _Kate_ got to do with this?"

"She's got everything to do with it," she tells him, a little irritation slipping into her smooth voice: "She's probably more a part of it than I am." She purses her lips and admits somewhat reluctantly: "And she'll be better for you than I ever was."

"So, I'm being dumped here?" he growls impatiently: "Is that what you're telling me?"

She wets her lips and takes a deep breath: "What's good for _me_," she tells him evenly: "is a clean break. So, do me a favor," she tips her head to one side, her eyes glinting sadly: "Don't call me… don't fight me… don't follow me…." She moves closer and puts a hand on his cheek: "Just let me go."

"Gillian--" he protests, but the words die in his throat as she leans in and plants a lingering, tender kiss on his cheek.

"Bye, Jethro," she breathes, drawing back, a thoughtful expression passing across her face.

She takes a few steps away from him, the silence stretching between their bodies. Stopping on the first step, she turns back to him, standing solid and stunned in the entrance, his hand gripping the door and his face stoney.

She swallows tightly, her heart softening. "Take care of her," she nods, holding his eyes for an instant. And when he doesn't give any response, she descends the rest of the stairs and walks away, slipping quickly into the chill night.

_TBC…_


	5. Chapter 5

_Part V _

There is a soft knock at the door before it opens. Kate's not asleep. She sits up in his bed, clasping the sheet to her chest as Gibbs pokes his head through the door. She looks tiny to him, sitting in the dim wash of the old lamp by his bed.

"Hey," he murmurs softly.

"Hey," she replies in a whisper.

He pauses. "Can I come in?" he asks hesitantly.

She nods: "Mm hm."

The silent air is tense and fragile. He can see that her eyes are still rimmed with redness and insecurity. Her body language is shy and crushed as she huddles under his sheets, crossing her legs beneath the heavy covers.

"Did you…? Um…?" she mumbles dimly, not finishing her thought.

He glances at her face as he takes off his jacket and hooks it over the bedpost. He knows what she's trying to ask. She wants to know whether or not he found the charming Brian Willis in her apartment. And whether he thrashed him within an inch of his life or sent the bastard on his way without penalty as she'd requested. He plants his hands on the railing at the foot of the bed, bowing his head and staring at the worn bedspread.

"I escorted Mr Willis home," he mutters through grit teeth.

Willis was in even worse shape than Kate. But Gibbs had expected that. Must have been quite a match -- not that the man deserved any pity. He got exactly what he deserved – less than, in fact. Kate Todd was not someone to be taken on lightly. And it took a hell of a lot to rattle the President's former protector and his current favored agent.

Gibbs had known by the state of her when she'd turned up at his house, that her opponent would be an absolute mess. But, despite his dark and vicious visions of revenge, he'd done only what she'd asked of him. He'd hauled the half-conscious sonovabitch out of her place, locked the door securely and drove him to his home.

He knew where the loser lived now. And he didn't let him out of the car before explaining in graphic and numbing detail just how pointless his life would be if he so much as cast a thought in the direction of Kate Todd again.

"I still think not pressing charges is a mistake," he sighs heavily, wagging his head: "This guy assaulted you."

Kate is silent for a long moment. "I have my reasons," she mutters quietly, partially to herself: "believe me…"

"It's your call, Kate," he grimaces reluctantly. He takes a breath before releasing in a fierce rush: "But if he comes near you again--" he clenches his jaw tightly, clutching the wooden railing and glaring at the blue bedspread: "you gotta promise me--"

"I'll tell you, Gibbs," she nods quietly, her face grim and drawn: "I promise."

Gibbs raises his head finally to look at her. Her brown eyes seem larger in her pale face and they smolder with subdued fire. He finds himself immensely relieved that that unique spark he admires in her so much, and has done from the very beginning, has not been stamped out entirely by the night's unpleasant events.

Kate gazes at her hands in her lap, then takes a breath and mumbles slowly: "I'm sorry about all this, Gibbs…"

He shakes his head weakly and moves closer. "Don't apologize," he mutters, taking a seat at the foot of the bed.

"I know, I know," hums Kate, smiling ruefully: "it's a sign of weakness."

"No," he states clearly: "Not what I meant."

She looks up, her eyes steady on his, despite their shattering vulnerability. He grits his jaw a few times and swallows, the assurances he wants to give her sticking in his throat.

"There's nothing to apologize for," he murmurs finally, his voice low and slow: "You did the right thing -- I'm glad you came to me."

His words sound awkward and forced to his own ears. He avoids this sort of talk as a rule, especially with colleagues, and his rawness seems to be showing. He feels like he should reach out with some gesture of comfort, give her a fatherly pat on the knee or something, but they're sitting too far apart for it to seem natural.

Instead, he plants his hands on his knees and bobs his head as he gazes about at his bedroom walls. He never realized how dull and tiny his bedroom is. He feels a little embarrassed.

After a short while, he looks back at Kate, her eyes downcast, her hands folded in her lap, her hair falling about her face. Her cheeks are ruddy from fresh tears and the wounds he can see on her pale skin have already started to turn purple.

"How're you feeling?" he inquires gently.

Kate sniffs and rolls her eyes heavenwards. "Stupid, " she mutters bluntly. She shakes her head and spreads her hands in a frustrated gesture: "I should've--"

"It's not your fault, Kate," he tells her instantly and insistently. Thankfully, this time the words leave his mouth easily and freely.

She meets his eyes momentarily and sighs, not convinced of her own innocence. She shakes her head again, her eyes drifting over his shoulder, her thoughts obviously possessed with some earlier word or deed.

He leans in closer to her. "It's not your fault," he reiterates, his voice firm, his eyes fixed on her face. He sees her brown eyes well with another bout of reluctant tears.

"_I feel like it is_!" she sobs faintly, her body tensing up as her tears fall down her cheeks: "I feel like—"

He shifts closer, scooting up beside her on the bed. He puts an arm around her shaking shoulders and draws her head onto his chest. She falls against him, softening into his sheltering embrace. Gradually, release overcomes her small frame and she sobs freely, her hands curled tight against his chest, her hot face pressed into his shirt.

"S'okay, s'okay," he whispers as she weeps in his arms, taking safe refuge in their uncustomary intimacy. "I've got you, Kate," he murmurs, rocking her back and forth slightly. One hand smooths gently over her hair, pushing it back from her flushed face: "I've got you…."

As her sobs subside, he moves up the bed further, sitting himself against the headboard and drawing her close. He crosses his legs at the ankle and opens his arms, urging her into their safety. Shyly, gratefully, Kate snuggles into him.

He strokes her shoulder, her arm, her hair as she carefully rests her cheek on his chest. Pulling the blue covers up over her, he peers down at her faraway expression, her eyes still wet with troubled tears.

"Hey," he murmurs, teasingly, attempting to draw her attention, her smile: "You don't think I'd ever let anything happen to you, do you?"

Kate's dark eyes glance up at him uncertainly. "I can look after myself," she mutters, halfheartedly into his soaked shirt.

"I know," he nods and pauses as his hand skates down her arm: "But if… you couldn't…" he shrugs, keeping his voice light and even: "if you ever needed help…"

He tilts his head down to look at her and Kate tilts hers back to meet his resolute gaze. She sniffs, blinking up at him expectantly.

"I've got your back, Katie Todd," he finishes, giving her a half-smile and a wink.

Kate stares up at him for a moment, then with a pensive nod, she lowers her face, wiping at her moist cheeks as she lays her head back on his shirt. One hand lifts carefully to rest under her chin, flat on his chest. He takes a deep breath, shifting slightly against her soft weight.

"That's good to know," Kate finally answers, her voice smooth and sleepy.

"Yeah, well…." he shrugs but can't think of any way to complete the sentence.

"Just so you know," she sighs, giving his chest a light, affectionate pat: "I've got your back too, Gibbs."

"Good. That's good," he nods, squeezing her shoulder with one hand. "I, for one," he tells her decidedly: "feel a hell of a lot safer."

Kate giggles softly: "Me too."

He smiles and looks down at her face as her eyes close over and her breathing starts to deepen. He watches her for a little while, his eyes and thoughts completely taken with the delicate peace of her face, the soft warmth of her body curled next to his and the precious swelling of emotion in his chest.

When the feeling becomes too much, he surrenders it to the darkness, reaching across to turn out the light. A moment later, his eyes drift shut too and sleep overcomes them together.

-x-

Sitting outside in her silver Mercedes on the opposite side of the road, Gillian sees the light go off in the upstairs bedroom, leaving the whole house dark. This is what comes of avoiding love, avoiding life, she thinks. You end up on the outside of it, looking in.

She never meant to care for Jethro Gibbs the way she grew to. And, yet, walking out on him had been one of the easiest things she'd ever done in her life.

Perhaps it's because he barely fought to keep her, barely tried to stop her leaving his life forever. Perhaps it's simply because she knew it was the right thing and the right time for both of them to move on.

Or, perhaps, it's that she has already experienced great love in her lifetime; and she knows that whatever it was they shared was not the same thing.

What she and Patrick had felt for one another was deep and unconditional and joyous and immense. To loose that at the ripe old age of forty-two seemed to be a dirty, sadistic joke on behalf of the universe and left a hole in her heart that the world couldn't fill. She was too old to find a new love and too young to curl up and die.

But, now, as she wipes the tears from her eyes, she tells herself that she doesn't intend to compromise her heart again for anything less than the real deal. If it can happen to Jethro Gibbs, it's possible for her too.

So, if she gets another chance at true love -- next time, she won't think twice. And, for Kate's sake, she hopes he won't either.

_END._

* * *

Thanks to all who read and especially reviewed. KIBBS FOREVER! M. 


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